


The Holocaust Was Complete

by Wyattsshoulderholsters



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Genre: How it all went down, Missing Scene, romanticized violence maybe?? no that doesnt sound right, somewhat graphic depictions of violence, warning: depiction of death/murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2019-04-17 14:03:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14190582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wyattsshoulderholsters/pseuds/Wyattsshoulderholsters
Summary: How I imagine the murder scene in The Great Gatsby.





	The Holocaust Was Complete

The blood red sunset stained the evening sky behind the extravagant manor. The rays, reflecting through the windows, gave the windows a flame effect that could be seen from where Gatsby lay. He lounged in the crystal-blue water of his pool on the last good day for swimming. He rested there perfectly still, concentrating on relaxing his ever-active mind and body. He was in the open, exposed. This task was going to be so much easier than Wilson had expected.

He clutched his black 19 11 hand gun firmly in his right hand. His grasp so tight his knuckles lost their color and turned a pale white. So this is what he had come to- the murder of a man he had never met? The anger swelled inside of him and grew like a fire being fed more oxygen. This was the man who had taken his wife, his everything, from him. His brow creased into a straight line and Wilson took his position, climbing up five stairs to the edge of the wooden pool deck silently, unnoticed by Gatsby whose face back was to Wilson. Steadily, he raised the hand gun parallel to the ground. Hesitation clicked in and his index finger caressed the trigger uncertainly.

"Myrtle did not even stand a chance." Wilson spoke, his voice so sharp that he almost startled himself. Gatsby only barely had time to react and turn his head slightly toward Wilson's voice.

Wilson felt his finger pull back toward himself and there was a jerk that made him stumble backward and momentarily lose his balance. The birds from the nearby landscape flew away at the thunderous sound, but Wilson vaguely heard the sound of the gun's fire or the scream of pain that was coming from Gatsby's direction.

The firearm felt heavier now, like lead in Wilson's trembling hand. His eyes dropped to the ground, he could not look at Gatsby's dying corpse. He staggered down the wooden stairs of the deck and opened his hand, letting the gun fall to meet the earth with a soft thump. Wilson dropped to his knees beside it and buried his face in his hands. He could smell murder on his hands- a bitter, metallic odor. His eyes traveled back to the gun that rested in the tall grass beside him.

A presence appeared next to him- Myrtle. Her ghostly white hand found his and she wrapped it around his, entwining their fingers together. Her hand was cold and light in his. The couple's eyes locked and she gave him a nervous smile.

"So this is what crazy feels like?" Wilson's voice betrayed him. He no longer sounded calm like he did before. His voice shook like a ricochet of the gun's fire he had heard just moments ago. Or had it been hours? He did not know any longer. He peered down at his left hand where his wife's hand has laced with his and with his other he reached for the 19 11, slowly bringing it up to his own temple. The warm metal felt smooth against his skin.

Myrtle vanished from his vision, disintegrating into the thick air. With his left hand empty, Wilson's eyes bored into Gatsby's now dead body that was still floating in the pool, the water tainted red to match the sky above it. A single bullet hole pierced through Gatsby's chest and the blood trickled from the wound.

There was another bang and Wilson's life slipped through his own shaking fingers as he pulled the trigger. His body fell limp and his mind slipped into the blackness of unconsciousness. The blood painted the tall grass around him with a dark shade of ruby red. The gun, still resting in his grasp, was warm against his cooling, motionless body.

For Wilson, there was no time for screaming.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not F. Scott Fitzgerald and I claim no rights to the characters mentioned in this work. This was done for an English class as a mini writing prompt. I really enjoyed the challenge in writing a missing scene and may do more in the future! (Yes, I know there are some details that don't 100% connect up to the book.) (This was posted at FF.net prior, under a different username.)


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